The Lion Dormant
by beachglass5387
Summary: The wars are over and Jaime and Brienne are left standing. Both must find a way to cope with all of the changes and claim a place in the new order. They are companions in loneliness  and it begins to seem that all either has left is the other. Future fic
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This is my first ASOIAF story. I've gotten caught up in the books and Jaime and Brienne just seemed like too much fun to leave alone. Also, since the books are, more or less, operating on the general theme of "things were bad and then they got worse," I figured a somewhat happier (no doubt AU!) story was in order. Rating may go up. _

**Prologue**

"Stop that, Wylbar," Aena says, blushing and slapping his hand away. She reaches for the corner of the large bed again, trying to smooth the sheets before he has a chance to reach out for her. "I got work that needs doing."

"You woulda asked Fat Miri to come up here with you if all you wanted was someone to help make the Kingslayer's bed. Come on, Aen, forget the sheets and be sweet to me," he says. He helps her lift the mattress and tuck the blankets under anyway.

She looks over at him and giggles. Wylbar grins back at her. He could not believe his good fortune the first time that she kissed him. It had been on a rare half-day off and they'd both gone into Flea Bottom to visit their families. Aena the Eyes, she's called in the lower city, for her dark eyes are almost improbably large. He grabs her hand and pulls her against his chest. This time, she stretches up to touch her lips to his. He does not realize that they are moving toward the bed until Aena's back is against the bedpost. She pulls away from him abruptly, looking down.

"Wyl," she says quietly. "We can't….I'm a….I'm not that type of-"

He leans down and kisses her soundly, then steps back. "I know," he says, sighing. "You're a right tease is what you are," he smiles as he says it, only half serious. Aena straightens her skirt and returns to tidying the room.

"Do you always clean his rooms?" Wylbar asks, looking around and taking in the neatly hung weapons and piles of dirty clothing for the first time.

"Aye," Aena says, blushing. "But he's never here. While I'm cleaning, I mean."

Wylbar's eyes narrow. He remembers watching the Kingslayer joust when he was a small boy; Jaime Lannister had been like something out of a story – young and laughing and always the victor. He remembers thinking that he would have given anything to be like the knight.

Now, though, seeing Aena's blush and the way she averts her eyes, he is overcome with a sudden loathing for the man. "He ever touched you? With the hand he's got left?"

"What?" Aena gasps, turning to look at him. "No! He took vows. He-"

"He's not in the Kingsguard no more," Wylbar says, shrugging. "And it didn't stop him having his sister when he was."

"He's not like that!" Aena says. "That's why Erlayne gave me his rooms to clean after….I had some trouble with…I used to clean…Whatever he done to the old queen, he don't bother serving girls."

"How you know if he's never here?" Wylbar asked.

"That's how I know," Aena said flatly, staring at him defiantly.

"What's he still doing here, anyway?" Wylbar asks, angrily reaching down to gather up the old sheets. "I thought after he was pardoned he was supposed to go haring off to Casterly Rock." _Wager she's glad he didn't_, he thinks, looking at Aena.

"How should I know? Wyl," she says softly. "The Kingslayer would no more look at me than at Lady Lollys."

"Bet you wish he would," Wylbar says sullenly. _Bet you wouldn't have pushed him away_, he thinks.

"Wylbar Waters," she says, putting down the basket she'd been filling with clothes. "He's handsome and all, but I don't want to be mixed up in anything like that. Cleaning bedchambers don't mean I'm a whore. I asked you to come because only man I want touching me is you. But if you're going to be-"

"Sorry," he says, smiling again. He crosses the room toward her and grabs her hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it." He kisses her again. At first she hesitates, but then she is kissing him back, her body pressed up against his. He begins to stiffen and draws back, breathing hard. "Can't blame me for worrying," he says. "You're a sweeter armful than the Kingslayer's got now."

Aena smiles at him at she tries to tuck her hair back into its neat braid. "I haven't heard about any woman," she says.

He raises an eyebrow at her, "Well, not quite a woman…" he says. Aena's large eyes grow even larger and he laughs at her assumption.

"Go on then, tell me," she says, slapping his arm. Aena the Eyes has always had a weakness for gossip.

"They say he is doing more than one kind of sword fighting with Brienne the Beauty."

"What?" she says, wrinkling her nose. "I don't believe it."

He shrugs. "Not every woman knows better than to get mixed up with the men like him." He pulls her braid. "Can't all be as clever as you," he teases.

"But she's so plain," Aena says, snatching her hair away. "And the way that she carries on with that sword and walks around got up like a man. I can't even imagine-"

"Maybe they did on these sheets," he says, picking them up again and tossing them at her.

She shrieks and dodges, laughing. Neither she nor Wylbar hear the footsteps of someone approaching over their merriment.

"They can't have," she says with finality, reaching down to bunch up the sheets and shoving them into her basket. "It would be obscene."

"Which part?" Wylbar laughs, noting that she had done her best to keep the linens as far away from her body as possible, no matter what she said, "a handsome man like Jaime Lannister bedding an ugly cow or an honorable maid like Brienne of Tarth spreading her legs for the Kingslayer?"


	2. Chapter 2

Jaime Lannister draws away from the doorway before he can hear the serving girl's answer. He does not want to know if the wench thinks he or Brienne would be more degraded. He should be used to people whispering about him, but he still does not know what to do about it. His first impulse has always been to run at the gossipers, screaming challenges and brandishing his sword. Fortunately, he thinks, years of being mocked by Tyrion for his recklessness has curbed this impulse somewhat. He makes himself wait until he is nearly certain he can speak calmly before entering the room.

He is gratified to see the horrified look that the two servants exchange when he walks casually through the door. At least he can be sure that, one handed or no, people are still afraid to speak ill of him where he might hear. He surveys them both coolly. "You've finished, I assume," he says.

"My lord?" the woman asks. She is looking down, no doubt suspecting that she and her companion had been overheard. She is a pretty little thing.

Jaime lets the silence drag on for a moment before gesturing around. "With my room."

"Yes, Ser Jaime," says the man. His voice is deferential, but his gaze doesn't waver. Jaime notes how close the other man – boy, really, for he cannot be more than sixteen— is standing to the girl. A lover that he is trying to impress, Jaime thinks.

"I had thought that bedchambers were usually cleaned by two wenches to avoid whispers of obscenity and impropriety amongst the servants," Jaime says lightly. "You had better have a care or all sorts of unfortunate rumors will soon be flying about where the two of you may be." From the way that the color has drained from their faces, Jaime can tell that they both understood the threat behind his words.

"Yes, my lord," both servants chorus. Jaime is pleased to see that the man has dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Get out," Jaime says, patience at an end and anger evident from his tone. He hears the pair scramble out of the room and shut the door behind them and he tosses his practice sword with more force than necessary at a nearby chair. He curses when he misses, sending the wooden blade sailing into a pitcher. That the pitcher, which crashes to the floor, turns out to be empty does nothing to improve his mood.

His clothes are sticking to his body and he wants a bath, but he has no desire to summon the girl back again to fetch water or to go to the public baths. He has had enough of people for the afternoon. He crosses the room, picks up the practice blade, and hangs it up in its place. His lip curls as he peels off layers of boiled leather and linen. He hates that even such a simple action can make him feel clumsy and he drops the garments to the floor.

He misses the old days, when hard practice used to make him feel alive. When he was younger, his ability to withstand the heavy blows and fight despite the lancing pain in his muscles made him feel invincible. He can still fight through the pain and some of his skill returning, but he no longer feels the rush of exhilaration. The world used to stop when there was a blade in his hand; there was nothing but his skill and his strength and a goal. Now, no matter what he does, he cannot escape from his thoughts or from the reality that the world, and his place in it, is larger than just a simple swordfight.

Sometimes, he can see that old, familiar expression on Brienne's face. Her jaw set, her wide mouth a straight line, and her eyes following his movements intently, he can tell that she is able to drown out everything but the fight. She is good, he thinks, and is starting to become confident in it. He envies her the discovery of talent; it has been years since he discovered anything about himself that brought him any joy.

He reaches back into one of the cupboards and draws out the flagon of wine that he had left unfinished the night before. _If I can't be clean_, he thinks, _at least I can be drunk_. He takes a sip and realizes that there is not enough of the red wine to truly numb his senses. He throws himself into the chair and notices a new bruise spreading up his left side where the wench had managed to land a heavy blow. _That might have killed me with a real sword_, he thinks in disgust.

He supposes it is natural that they have sparked gossip – they are almost friends and she is a woman, even if she is not a comely one. He sees her most days and the undemanding quiet of her presence is a relief. He still gets up every morning and swears that this will be the day that he does not think of Cersei. He does not want to think of the security or her presence, or the press of her breasts against his chest, or her eyes, so like his own, as she'd died. There is nothing about Brienne that reminds him of his twin and the uneasy companionship that he shares with the maid developed far away from Cersei. She does not raise his sister's ghost and, though he still finds her earnestness grating, she is a less unsettling practice partner than Ser Ilyn Payne.

He knows that they are comically mismatched. She is not beautiful -only barely feminine, really—and he, even missing a hand and on the wrong side of thirty, is. He is not selfless; he only manages to be decent on his best days, he thinks wryly, and she is one of the most unselfish people he has ever met. Between them they have the makings of one hero from a song.

There was a time when no one would have laughed harder than he at the idea of their names being coupled. When Tyrion mentioned her, he would have chuckled and snidely said "Well, little brother, after years of hearing about your exploits, I decided it was high time I find out what it feels like to be dwarfed by a wench." When other knights raised their eyebrows at him and Brienne leaving the practice grounds together, he would have sarcastically proclaimed that she was just too lovely to resist.

He finds that, though he is not shy about pointing out her flaws to her, he cannot bring himself to speak so of her to others anymore. He will not drag her name through the mud to save himself embarrassment. He owes her more than that. Besides, all of Westeros has been accusing him of having obscene taste in women for years. It had not bothered him much when the rumors were true. He does not see why untrue rumors should upset him.

He sighs and drains the last of the wine. He has been cooped up at King's Landing with little to do for too long. He wishes that he could leave. "Soon enough," Tyrion always said whenever he mentioned it. "Since I've saved your neck, the least you can do is stay here until things are more settled and watch my back. Consider it payment of a debt."

Jaime knows this is not the real reason that he hasn't been allowed to return to Casterly Rock. Or, at least, it is not the only reason. Though he has never had any taste for what Cersei had called the Game of Thrones, he understands the rules. Tyrion had taken a chance in saving him from execution and an even larger risk in advocating that Jaime be instated as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West after the King's Guard was disbanded. Jaime knows that he is likely to be trapped in the Red Keep until the new regime is satisfied that he has no thoughts of plotting treason.

_Another reason to seek out Brienne's company_, he thinks. There is no one less likely than she to be accused of being a coconspirator. No matter how the war has changed her, the idea of her skulking about and scheming down dark corridors is laughable. The thought makes him smile; she does not like the Game any more than he does. When they first met, she did not understand the shifting alliances and treachery that swirled around the Iron Throne. Now she does, and, if he is any judge, wishes she could unlearn the rules. He knows that he wishes he could forget. _Maybe if I can just get away from here_, he thinks. He runs his hands through his close-cropped hair, still damp from sweat, and heaves himself out of the chair.

There is nothing for it. He will have to call the girl back again so that he can bathe. He must put in an appearance at dinner tonight and he cannot sit in the great hall covered in sweat and dirt. He avoids eating with rest of the castle when he can; much of the food presents a challenge to a man with only one hand and he hates having servants flutter around him anxiously, unsure if they are supposed to cut his food for him. And, to make the scene even more distasteful, he is almost always seated next to an unmarried young woman and one or more of her scheming relations. He imagines they must be bribing whoever makes the arrangements. That, or it is Tyrion's idea of a joke. Or maybe it is his idea of a favor. Sometimes, it is hard to tell with his little brother.

The girls are well enough. He supposes he will have to marry one of them if he ever is allowed to go home to Casterly Rock. He wishes he could summon more enthusiasm for the idea. They are all lovely, sweet, and biddable, but he cannot shake the feeling that he is talking to a beautifully crafted illusion. And he makes them nervous. He had never made Cersei nervous and she was always there for him to see, even though he had sometimes preferred his illusions. He never misses his sister more than when some lordling's daughter is simpering at him.

He wonders where young ladies learn to speak that way. If Cersei and Brienne are anything to go by, it can hardly be an innate skill. Cersei had managed it sometimes, but the Maid of Tarth could no more simper than she could fly. He doesn't make Brienne nervous, either. _Not since they cut off my hand, at any rate_, he thinks. He finds it reassuring that he can usually he can taunt, ridicule, or provoke her into saying what she thinks.

He does not know why she spends time with him. He does not think much about her reasoning, but he supposes it is because she knows few people and is awkward around everyone. In truth, she is awkward around him as well, but he doubts she cares what he thinks of her. Probably she will care if she hears rumors that she's given up her maidenhead to him. Most likely she will turn bright red and yell that she would never do such a dishonorable thing, especially not with such a dishonorable person. The thought bothers him more than he is comfortable with.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Thanks to all reviewers and readers! I forgot to put a disclaimer at the beginning, so let me just quickly state that I don't own these characters/the awesome ASOIAF franchise. _

**Chapter Two**

Peace turns out to be another thing about which Brienne of Tarth was wrong. She used to imagine the end of the war when she was riding through the dark, cold and alone. She thought of that seemingly impossible time, somewhere in the hazy future, when each new day would not bring fresh wounds and she would see the blue waters of Tarth again. She is still surprised that she has lived to see the end of the fighting.

But she had forgotten that the constant feeling of anxiety coiled low in the pit of her stomach was not the result of the war, but a simple reality of who she is. She is glad that the slaughter is over, glad that the small folk can rebuild again, glad that, though she is badly scarred, she still has all of her limbs. She glances over at Jaime Lannister, who is seated beside a delicate brunette lady. His familiar bored, arrogant expression almost makes Brienne smile. The young woman, a Redwyne, Brienne recalls, seems to be trying to engage him in her chatter. Jaime turns and says something that makes the girl's eyes go wide and reaches for his goblet. Brienne feel a wave of nervous energy wash over her as he suddenly looks across the room at her and raises an eyebrow.

She looks back at him for a minute, color spreading across her cheeks, and then looks back down at her food. The middle-aged man sitting beside her, Ser Andwyn, is ignoring her after two failed attempts at conversation. First he had asked if it was true that she had been there when the Kingslayer lost his hand. Then he had asked her what had happened to her face. They sit in silence now, his eyes flicking to her scarred cheek from time to time. Brienne pretends not to notice, but she shakes her now shoulder-length hair in front of her face so that she is hidden.

It had been stupid to think that things would be different after the war. On the muddy roads and bloody battlefields of Westeros, sometimes she had been able to pretend that she was a fighter like any other. Back at court again, she remembers that no amount of skill or heroism will make her into anything other than the ugly, freakish maid that will inherit an island. Except now it is worse than before. In Renly's court, she had only _thought _she would never be accepted. Now she is wise enough to know it with certainty.

She had written to her father, telling him she was well and had been invited to stay and enjoy the hospitality in King's Landing. She had known that Lord Selwyn would understand that she was being held hostage until the dust finally settled. He had written her back promptly to say that he was glad she was unharmed and happy to say that he too was in good health and that Tarth was already on the mend. He bid her celebrate the peace with her companions and pray for the future prosperity of her home.

She frowns down at her plate. Just as her captivity was the subtext of her message, instructions to make alliances were written in between the lines of Lord Selwyn's missive. The only sort of alliance maids were usually commanded to make involved marriage. She wonders which is less likely: her finding a man to marry in the Red Keep or her charming someone into looking favorably on Tarth for some other reason. She takes a sip of water and leans to the left so the servants can set the last course upon the table.

She hates eating with the court. For one thing, she never knows what to wear. At first, she wore her usual tunic and breeches. Then, when she grew tired of knights and their ladies mocking her for wishing to be a man, she switched to dresses to prove that she was not ashamed to be a woman. Then, they laughed and said that she was embarrassed about her past as a warrior and was trying to make everyone forget that she knew more about swords than ribbons. It was maddening. Now she dons whatever clean garment comes to hand first and does her best to ignore the giggles and unkind comments.

Tonight she is wearing a gown; it is grey and serviceable and long enough to conceal that she is wearing boots instead of slippers. She had chosen it because its loose sleeves do not constrict her arms as much as her usual boiled leather. She had briefly lost focus earlier while sparing with Jaime and he had gotten through her guard and hit her upper arm with his practice blade hard enough to split the skin. He had seemed surprised that the blow had landed. She is surprised that she ever manages to block his attacks.

She loves watching him fight. His movements are precise and graceful and his expression gives nothing away. She knows he is frustrated that he is still not as good with his left hand as he once was with his right. What he fails to see is that "not as good" for Jaime Lannister is still a great deal better than most men ever hope to be. Fighting against him forces her to become better and she likes to believe that she is good enough to make practicing with her useful to him. He will keep improving, she thinks. Underneath his sarcasm and pride is a fierce determination to succeed.

They say he had fought like a man possessed in the last days of the war. She had not seen him for days after she arrived at the Red Keep after the final battle. No one had. Then, one morning, he strolled into the practice yards, wooden blade under his arm and something resembling his old smirk plastered on his face. Knights had swarmed him, asking him questions and looking up and down his body sidelong, trying to see if there were any fresh injuries. Brienne had not been close enough to hear what Jaime had said to them, but he had shaken them off as quickly as possible and continued to walk deliberately toward her.

He had leaned against the fence beside her and Brienne thought that it couldn't have been an accident. He had come this way to speak to her.

"Ser Jaime," she had said, unsure what should come next.

"Brienne."

"You are well?" She asked.

He had laughed then. It was a hollow, bitter sound. "I am no coward," was all he said.

She is not quite sure how they fell into the rhythm of practicing together. Jaime seemed to turn up at the yards around the same time every day and so did she. She forces herself to admit that, after that first day, she had been sure to be standing by the fence, practice sword in hand, at the same time in case he did come. It sounds pathetic, even in her head, but there are not many men who will partner with her. Most of the knights and squires had originally been afraid of seeming weak for fighting with a woman. After seeing her fight, they were afraid of being embarrassed if they lost.

Jaime didn't seem to care that she was a woman and she was too grateful to give his reasoning much thought. Renly had respected her abilities and she had loved him for it. Sometimes, it makes her sad how infrequently she thinks of Renly now. The time before he died in her arms seems like a blur; it seems impossible that there was a time before she had killed a man, before she'd seen rapes and children fighting each other for dead rats, before she'd sworn oaths to Lady Catelyn, before she'd known the Kingslayer.

Before Renly had been killed, she'd always had dreams to retreat to. She'd had hopes of a future of honor and loyalty and usefulness to think of. When all else failed, there had been songs to hum and stories of valor to remember. She doesn't have anywhere to run anymore. Those to whom she had sworn allegiance are dead and she has broken more vows than she's kept. The songs she once loved haunt her now – she finally sees the world as it is and tales of how it could be have lost their charm.

One of the men on her right is laughing at the fool's japes and his lady smiles and leans in to kiss him. That is another thing Brienne hates about eating with the court: being forced to sit and listen to people talk happily and laugh. The court is a swirl of people who pretend that the war had been glorious, people that believe that the peace will last, people that forget all the terrible things that they had done. Jaime Lannister does not pretend. He does not forget. She understands better now that the rude comments, unsettling humor, and dislike of sentimentality that had once so irritated her are his way of dealing with an inability to escape from reality. She had never thought that she would admire the Kingslayer. It is another thing about which Brienne had been wrong.

She takes another sip of water. At least the meal will be over soon and she can retreat to her room and sleep. She hears Ser Andwyn conversing with someone else and hunches more determinedly over her food in case he thinks he is obligated to try to include her in the conversation.

"If you don't pull your hair out of your face and greet me properly I will soon be forced to agree with Ser Andwyn that you are the most disagreeable dining companion since Aerulian the Flesheater. And I would hate to have to agree with Ser Andwyn about anything."

Brienne abruptly straightens. "What are you doing here?" Ser Andwyn is gone and she finds herself sitting next to Jaime Lannister. Bewildered, she glances back across the room as if to confirm that he is no longer sitting there.

"Eating as best I can with my good hand. Drinking or beloved sovereign's fine wine. Glorying in delightful conversation."

"You were over there," she says, internally cringing at how stupid she sounds.

"No doubt it was your grasp of people's movements that made you so ideally suited for a life on the battlefield."

_I'm not ideally suited for anything_, she thinks. "Did you take Ser Andwyn's seat in order to mock me? If so, it was unnecessary, because he already-"

"What did he say to you?" Jaime asks, looking around behind him as if searching for the departed Ser Andwyn. Brienne is puzzled to hear the dangerous edge to his voice.

"Nothing of any consequence. Jaime, what-"

"Coward gossips like a chambermaid. His weapon of choice is a crossbow, you know."

"I didn't know," Brienne says. People are rising to leave all around them and she stands, self-consciously running a large hand over the front of her skirt. She wonders if there will ever be a time when other people do not confuse her.

Jaime stands too, grimacing. "The Redwyne girl is very pleased to learn that some of the eastern fashions may soon be here at court," he says derisively. "Walk with me and tell me your opinion, wench."

"Brienne," she reminds him, though there is no venom in her voice.

"Mmhmm," he says, moving towards the doors. "Brienne. Maid of Tarth."

"You're drunk," she observes. She does not understand why he has sought her out, but she follows him anyway.

"Not very. I only like to chance so many reaches for the goblet. Gods know I'm as like to knock the bloody thing to the ground as not. Splatter marks are not popular with maids and their matchmaking parents."

"You seem to be," she says. She doesn't want to continue talking about this, but she is not sure what to say to dissuade him. He has led them through a small side corridor and out onto the empty battlements. Sometimes she forgets how well he knows the Red Keep.

"Yes. The last time I was so privileged, I had to join the Kingsguard just to be rid of them all." He waits for Brienne to respond and leans forward to peer at her face when she does not. "Not going to chide me for speaking so lightly of such an honorable institution? No words of disgust for my lack of concern for my abandoned vows?"

"I don't believe that was your reason for joining the Kingsguard," Brienne says.

"You would have believed it once," he taunts.

"There are many things I once believed," she says neutrally.

He sighs and leans against the wall. "I imagine you want to be back at Tarth."

"No," she says, before she has time to think. The answer surprises her.

"Don't tell me that you've taken a liking to court. You always look miserable from across the hall."

She shrugs, hoping he will change the subject. He does. "That was a bad blow I took from you today. You should be pleased. You've killed me several times over this week."

Brienne does not want to talk of killing him, even in jest. "It's good of you to practice with me." It is the only thing she can think of to say.

He snorts and raises his eyebrows. "Being a cripple has made me magnanimous," he says.

She laughs. He smiles at her then; a real smile, she thinks, not his usual mocking grin. Her stomach seems to roll over and she concentrates on keeping her expression blank.

"You don't laugh often," he says.

"I hear enough laughter," Brienne says, looking away from him. "What do you want, Jaime?"

"Ah. Yes," he says. He pauses for a moment and Brienne is surprised to realize that he is uncomfortable. "Brienne, about the rumors-"

"You wish to speak to me about rumors?" she asks. She is used to being the subject of rumors; most of them involve what is between her legs and whether or not she truly is a woman underneath her armor. The thought of discussing any of them with Jaime Lannister makes her want run as fast and as far as she can. "I had not thought you were a gossip, ser."

"No one can avoid idle chatter cooped up in this fucking castle," he says petulantly.

"Then why stay?" Brienne asks, hoping that he will abandon any further discussion of the whispers about her. She cannot imagine what he intends by bringing them up.

"Surely you know that I'm not to be trusted away from my brother's watchful eye."

"But you're the Lord of Casterly Rock, now. Certainly-"

"The only thing that is certain is that I am still the _kingslaying_ Lord of Casterly Rock. Against all of Good King Robert's wishes, it would seem that we Lannisters _have_ made a habit of regicide these past years. I must prove that I'm a toothless lion." He sits on a ledge on the wall, leaning his head back against the stones.

"No one will believe that," she says. Even half-drunk and slumped he manages to look poised for an attack.

"Then I'm like to be a prisoner here for some time," he says in annoyance. "Nothing more amusing than having a caged beast to torment with promises and lies. I'm sorry that you've been brought into it. That's what I wanted to tell you," he finishes awkwardly, looking away from her.

"Brought into what?" Brienne asks warily.

"Come, woman," he says, sounding angry all of a sudden. "The Redwyne girl has already run though my patience for feigned ignorance. You know what I'm speaking of. Are you waiting for a more flowery apology? For me to swear to defend you honor? Or, no doubt you'd prefer to defend it yourself. I warn you wench, I won't stand still and let you run me through just because some fools have the audacity to dishonor you by pairing your name with mine."

She doesn't understand what he is talking about and she is becoming angry herself. She glares at him and is about to demand he explain himself when he stands up to glare back at her. "Don't look at me that way, wench. It's not as if _I'm_ telling people I'm fucking you."

She feels the blood rush to her face.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: Thanks again to all readers and reviewers! It makes me happy to write this story and even happier to know that there are people interested in reading it. It's going to be a bit of a slow build, but I promise more shippyness in the future. All possible disclaimers apply. _

**Chapter 3**

The woman seems unable to speak. Jaime, by contrast, is finding it difficult to keep from flying into an angry tirade. Everything about her from her stubborn refusal to accept his apology to her freckled skin suddenly fills him with an irrational rage. _I'm Jaime Lannister_, he thinks. How dare she judge him? Who is she that she should blame him for rumors of her dishonor? She had chosen long ago not to act like a normal lady and it was not as if he had forced her to speak to him. She had known his reputation full well and she had befriended him despite the potential for scandal.

Or so he had thought. Maybe she just practiced with him because she enjoyed seeing how far he'd fallen. She believed in justice, he knew. Probably she had thought her own honor was so firmly established by now that it wouldn't matter with whom she kept company. He wants to sneer and tell her she was wrong. He wants to scream at her that he had tried to do right by his vows and had kept on trying even after everything he had ever sworn was meaningless. He wants to yell and yell until she can have no doubt that he has never said or done anything to suggest to anyone that she is anything but what she should be.

He does not know why he cares so much what the big, homely woman thinks about him_. Because she is one of the only people left at court who does not think of me only as the Kingslayer_, a small voice in his head says_. _It is a ridiculous thought. No matter what he does, he is the sister-fucking Kingslayer with shit for honor and three dead royals for children. No one knows it better than Brienne.Suddenly, he just feels exhausted.

He had intended to calmly make his apologies that she had been dragged into the rumors that follow him wherever he goes and tell her that he would stay away from her if she wished. All told, the conversation should not have lasted long – there had been no need to draw out the interaction with her and certainly no need to wander out to the battlements. But Jaime had found that he had to get away – away from the court, away from the veiled insults of Enella Redwyne, and away from himself.

He hadn't minded Lady Enella Redwyne at first. Her breasts were high and firm and her face well-formed and set off by bright eyes that seemed to hold a great deal of intelligence. _Trouble_, he had thought. The Redwyne women were a dangerous bunch; he had no doubt that this girl's sweet smiles and clever comments were in service of some scheme or other of her family's. He hadn't minded that much either until he had caught sight of Brienne across the hall sitting next to Ser Andwyn Bristan, a diminutive hedge knight who had once been sworn to the Redwynes. _The heir of Tarth should not be partnered with someone so lowly_, he thought.

No one had laughed harder whenever Robert Baratheon made a jest at Jaime's expense than Ser Andwyn, Jaime had remembered, nor been quicker to scuttle out of the Kingslayer's way on the tourney grounds. Jaime had been momentarily pleased to see that Brienne was looking at Ser Andwyn as if her dearest wish was to stab him with her eating dagger. Then it occurred to him that it was unlikely that it was merely coincidence that had placed him next to a Redwyne and Brienne next to a man sworn to their house. Perhaps it was nothing, but, after years of living in the Red Keep, the paranoia that underlay every interaction had finally begun to creep into his thinking. What lies was Ser Andwyn telling of him? Had the Redwynes been spreading tales of impropriety to try to weaken House Lannister?

Lady Enella had seen the direction of Jaime's stare and smiled slyly. "I think you know Ser Andwyn, my lord," she said.

"Rather better than I care to," Jaime had said.

She had laughed politely. "I never speak ill of anyone in the service of my family, my lord, but I have heard others say that Ser Andwyn will never find a warm welcome among brave men. My lord father says small men do not always have room enough for courage." She looked up at him from under long lashes.

"Is that so?" Jaime drawled, hearing multiple meanings and a possible reference to Tyrion behind her words.

"I am sure I could not say, my lord," she said. "I have little experience of such things. I am afraid that I have only learned to speak with certainty about fashions and songs, as befits a maid." She offered him a charming, self-mocking smile. "I fear your dinner may have passed more enjoyably with a companion more …_acquainted_ …with the nature of men." Her eyes flashed across the room and landed briefly on the Maid of Tarth, who was so hunched over her bowl that she looked in danger of drowning in her soup.

"My lady," Jaime said, "no doubt your modesty is unwarranted. I have no doubt that you are familiar with the natures of a number of men."

The lady had flushed but recovered quickly. "I should like to be more familiar with yours, my lord. You must tell me some of your opinions so that I might better understand you."

Bold as she was, Jaime had doubted she would have cared to hear most of his opinions in that moment. He had opened his mouth to tell her some of them anyway, but Tyrion, who had been watching from several seats down, had caught his eye and shook his head slightly. Jaime did not think it possible that the dwarf could have heard his conversation with Lady Enella, but Jaime supposed that Tyrion was familiar enough with his older brother's expressions to know when a scene was imminent.

"What is it you think you would like to know?" Jaime asked, shrugging almost imperceptibly in Tyrion's direction.

The lady smiled, and there was nothing sweet about her expression. "I would like nothing better than to learn your thoughts on the new fashions here in court. All of the maids are saying that many styles may cross the Narrow Sea as armies once did. Of course, my lady mother tells me that many of the Eastern ways which are coming to the Seven Kingdoms will cause quite a scandal amongst civilized people. I have heard that some savage women go about with one breast bared. I have also heard that many of their women ride and fight with men all day and then bed down with them every night," she laughed lightly, pretending to be embarrassed. "But then, it is so difficult to know what is true and what is not. Pray tell me, my lord, what is your opinion?" His opinion had been that he wanted to be away from the woman as soon as possible.

He glances over at Brienne again; from what he can see in the fading light, all of the color that had rushed to her face is now gone. She looks pale and her breathing sounds odd. _Maybe she is going to faint,_ he thinks idly. That's what a maid was meant to do in a moment like this. Or maybe she will hit him. That seems more likely. That's what Cersei would have done.

He remembers the first time that he heard whispers at court about him and his twin being overly close. He hadn't heard them directly, in truth – Cersei had. She had been as angry as he had ever then seen her when she told him; she had screamed at him and struck him and finally burst into tears. _She was terrified, _he thinks, a_nd so young_.

Jaime still remembers the way his stomach had lurched when his sister had shoved him into an empty room and shrieked at him that Varys had overheard someone jesting that Jaime had more than brotherly affection for his queen. He had not thought the jest of any consequence, nor cared for Varys's opinions, but he had feared that Cersei would insist that he keep away from her and had felt a rush of almost uncontrollable panic. _She's all I have here_, he remembers thinking. He had grabbed her wrist as she raised her hand to strike him again and had yanked her to him, kissing her and ripping at her clothes. He had been relieved when she kissed him back just as desperately and reached down to roughly pull at the laces of his breeches.

"Must you always be staring at me, Jaime?" she had said later, frowning over her damaged gown.

"Who should I stare at instead?" he had asked, smiling lazily at her. He had been sure then that she had no intention of pushing him away and the uncharacteristic fear he had felt seemed distant.

She grinned back at him. "The king you are sworn to protect?" she joked.

He had drawn her into his lap. "That won't do. I have nothing but _unbrotherly_ feelings for him, and with my reputation…" his voice was teasing, though what he had said was true enough. Looking at Robert Baratheon had filled him with such rage that he sometimes thought that if he looked at the king long enough he would find himself with a blade at the other man's throat without quite knowing how he got there.

"Jaime," Cersei had said, reaching out to cup his jaw in her hand, her touch more delicate than usual. "You know that I have no love for Robert. He is neither fit to wear a crown nor to give me a child. It is you and I who must think about the future."

Not long after that, she'd been pregnant with Joffrey and no more had been said about Jaime's relationship to his twin for a time.

Jaime's mouth quirks; he doubts the same solution will work to dispel the rumors about him and the Maid of Tarth. Jaime still does not much care if the lies persist so long as no one dares laugh at him where he can hear. _Brienne cares_, he thinks. Her silence unnerves him.

"Damn it, Brienne," he snarls, annoyed and tired of waiting for her to speak. "What is it you are waiting for? With the amount of time you've spent traveling with armies I doubt even your looks have prevented gossip about your virt…" the expression on her face silences him. _She looked calmer in the Goat's bear pit_, he notes. It is a rare woman who would rather face teeth and claws than whispers and jests.

It occurs to him then that somehow she hadn't heard the stories circulating about their supposed trysts. Apparently most people, including Ser Andwyn, are too afraid of her to say such things within earshot of her. _That should please you, my lady_, he thinks. He looks at the way her hands are clenching and unclenching and decides against telling her so at the moment. He is struck by the urge to laugh, but not for nothing had he been raised by Tywin Lannister; Jaime had learned early that laughing is often the worst thing to do. For once, he remembers the lesson.

He sighs. "Forgive me, Brienne. That was badly done. I thought that you already knew."

She doesn't seem to have heard him. She turns to look out over the wall, her shoulders hunched and her hands fisted in her skirts.

Jaime Lannister had never been the sort of man to take kindly to being ignored. "Thinking of flinging yourself over the battlements in shame?" he says, his tone mocking again. "Will you wait a moment if I promise that I have no designs on your virtue at present?"

She turns abruptly, her eyes narrowed and her feet spread like a fighter's underneath her skirt. "Don't you think that I know that you don't," she hisses. "I am no fool, ser! That people believe….The idea that we….. It's absurd!"

"Careful, woman, or I'm going to be offended," he drawls.

"Brienne!" she nearly yells. "Why can't you just stop-"

"Alright, alright. Calm down," he reaches out to touch her shoulder and she jerks away. "Brienne, I-"

"Thank you for telling me," she says, her voice harsh and her eyes downcast. He can't tell what she is thinking. Is she angry? Embarrassed?_ I should walk away and leave her to it_, he thinks.

"I know you are not a fool," he says quietly, hoping to pacify her. She looks up at him then and he can tell immediately that he has made another error. Her expression is a blend of rage, humiliation, and something else he cannot name. _Damn the woman_, he thinks. _What now? _

As he watches, her face becomes blank and her eyes seem to harden. "Goodnight, ser," she says, turning on her heel and walking quickly away before he can say anymore. He watches her disappear back into the dark corridors of the keep and feels an inexplicable urge to chase after her. Though he does not know why it is suddenly so important to him that she not leave, nor what else he wants to say to her, he is about to follow when he hears the rustle of clothing directly behind him.

"Your attempts at honesty never seem to go much better than my bouts of valor, brother," Tyrion says, seeming to emerge from the shadows themselves.

"I hate it when you do that," Jaime says, whirling on his brother, who has raised a hand to finger the scar where his nose had once been.

Tyrion shrugs. "Don't deny me one of the few advantages being a dwarf allows me." Jaime sinks back down onto the ledge, feeling drained. Tyrion clambers up beside him and they sit in silence for a few moments. "It will be well and truly spring, soon," Tyrion finally says as a warm breeze wafts across the battlements.

"For whom, exactly?" Jaime asks.

Tyrion smiles in the dark. "War has made you bitter, brother," he says.

"Peace has made me bitter," Jaime says and waits for Tyrion's jape. His brother surprises him.

Tyrion sighs, smile gone. "We have paid for in in iron, as the Greyjoys would say. Many times over. Although," the younger man says, leaning forward, "if it means that I shall never be reduced to fucking a poxy camp follower again, I am not sure that I will think it too dearly bought."

This startles a laugh from Jaime, but it sounds hollow to him. Though he is grateful for the brief moments when his brother seems unchanged, he recognizes that Tyrion is likely only trying to put him in a better mood in preface to talking about something unpleasant.

"I have been thinking-" Tyrion starts.

"You have too many thoughts for so small a man," Jaime interrupts. Something of his old relationship with Tyrion has returned, he thinks, but there are now many subjects they must avoid. Every time the dwarf opens his mouth, Jaime is afraid that he will mention Tywin or Tommen or, worse still, Cersei.

"No doubt more of them about women and drink than is good for me. That woman…Brienne of Tarth…"

"What of her?" Jaime says uninvitingly. He has no desire to hear Tyrion's reflections on the woman at present. He is tired of thinking of Brienne of Tarth and her honor and her large eyes.

"I have heard that some call her the Kingslayer's Whore," Tyrion says, inching ever so slightly away from his brother.

"Not where I can hear them they don't," Jaime says, turning to glare at Tyrion.

"No, not in her hearing either, I don't think. For some reason, the court seems to think you would both react violently to such talk," Tyrion says. "Jaime…It is important that we establish a strong presence at court. I do not need to tell you that the Tyrells and all the rest would like nothing better than to make us a laughingstock and sow doubts about our intentions. We must act carefully in the coming months if we are to make our House as powerful as it once was. I don't think that -"

Jaime laughs. He almost says that Tyrion sounds like their father, but he stops himself. "So you've followed me out here to tell me I best keep out of any brawls like a good captive? I always thought the power of House Lannister derived from our willingness to massacre anyone who dared gainsay us. I seem to remember that there's a rather famous song about it. Since when are you so sentimental about our good name?"

Tyrion smiles ruefully. "Since I learned what it is like to be a dwarf without being a Lannister. I'm tired of fighting, Jaime. It seems to me that the best way to avoid an excess of it in the future is to remind the kingdom that we are as resilient as we are rich."

"I'd feel a great deal more resilient away from the Red Keep," Jaime says.

Tyrion ignores him. "I was concerned that you were considering challenging Lady Enella to single combat. I imagine she said something to upset you. Do you think that the Redwynes are planning something?"

"Aren't they always?" Jaime asks. Tyrion keeps staring at him and Jaime relents. "Not to worry. They're not clever or powerful enough to come up with anything very concerning. I have no intention of flattering that girl by becoming paranoid."

Tyrion looks at him shrewdly. "Still, I am sure that you are aware that it would be unwise to allow some of our new friends to begin to believe that they may be able to get at House Lannister though making life…more difficult…for the Maid of Tarth. It could be dangerous for you both and the lady does not strike me as particularly tractable. From what I heard- "

Jaime is curious about what his brother is implying, but his side is beginning to ache again and he is too annoyed with Tyrion to give him the satisfaction of asking him questions. "_Overheard_, you mean. How is it that you never learned not to comment on conversations you hear listening at keyholes?" He asks, hoping the dwarf will drop the subject.

"I had an indulgent older brother," Tyrion says, his smile as close to apologetic as it ever is.

"He probably should have beaten you as a child," Jaime grumbles.

"I think it surprised everyone that he didn't," Tyrion says. "Jaime," he continues, his voice suddenly serious, "I…I am sorry that you have to stay here."

"Think nothing of it," Jaime says sardonically. He has had enough serious discussion for an evening. "I am grateful for my life."

"Are you?" Tyrion asks uncertainly. Jaime turns to look at his brother again. Something in his tone had reminded him strongly of the child Tyrion had been.

"Yes," he says simply, a smile tugging at his mouth.

Tyrion smiles back. "Good. About Brienne of Tarth -"

"I'll endeavor to get her to swear not to attempt to bring down House Lannister in recompense for the slight on her honor. Will that please you? She takes swearing very seriously," Jaime says impatiently. _Too late to go after her now_, he thinks.

"Does she?" Tyrion asks. "That could be inconvenient."

Jaime isn't truly listening to his brother anymore. He supposes he will go to the practice yards early in the morning and wait for Brienne near the fence and say….What? _She's won't come_, he realizes. His stomach lurches at the thought and he feels an uncharacteristic swell of panic.


	5. Chapter 5

Brienne's throat aches with the effort of not crying and her head is heavy from lack of sleep_._ It makes no sense that after all the things that she's seen and all of the things that she's done that something as trivial as a rumor should bother her. _I rode into battles_, she reminds herself. _I did not flinch at killing men nor draw back when my own death seemed certain._ She should be proud of that and sometimes she is. But now, sitting still in her room in the grey of the early morning, she feels she is thirteen all over again.

She is surprised to find that, somewhere in the back of her mind, she had still thought that if she was good enough, if she was honorable and skilled and brave, that people must accept her. She supposes that she should have known better. She should have remembered that the best she can hope for is for men like Lord Tarly, who would give her the courtesy of telling her to her face that she does not belong in a man's world instead of playing cruel games and spreading lies behind her back.

At least Jaime is such a man. She is nearly certain that he will do her kindness of telling her to her face to keep her distance. She knew that he has been trying hard to live his life with honor. He had done everything he could to keep his promises to Lady Catelyn, even after she wasn't Lady Catelyn anymore. He had treated justly with the Riverlords and would have died in battle defending his king if he could. He had been brave and fair and she had finally heard people begin to speak of him as something more than the Kingslayer. Though she knew it had nothing to do with her and she had no right to feel so, she had been proud of him and glad that she knew such a man.

Ruined now, she thinks. Ruined by her mere presence, just as Lord Tarly had once said her presence among men must always ruin things. Part of her is furious. She wants to storm into the Queen's ballroom, where all the proper ladies sit gossiping, and scream at them that Jaime Lannister is a good man and that he would not dishonor himself by compromising a highborn lady, no matter how the lady comported herself. She wants to crash their pretty heads together and demand that they tell her what she has ever done to deserve their scorn. Thinking of it makes her miss the war. In the war, she could have hit them. In the war, she always knew what to do when surrounded by enemies.

She sighs, reaching for her clothes and stretching the stiffness from her muscles. She should be focused on upholding her honor. She should be thinking about proving herself to the new regime. She should be worried about the way that these rumors would upset her father if ever they reached Tarth. Instead, all she can think of is Jaime Lannister. After hours of hoping for sleep, mainly what Brienne thinks is that Jaime Lannister confuses her. She doesn't know why this bothers her so much – he has confused her since he held out an oar and hauled her into the boat on the first morning she spent with him.

_I may be ugly and stupid_, she thinks, _but I am no coward_. They had all been making japes at her expense yesterday; the only difference was that she now knew exactly what they were saying. A knight would not cry. A knight would not spare a moment for the whispers of cowards or the opinions of oathbreakers. A knight would stand tall, shoulders squared, walk into the practice yards, and stare down any man who dared to whisper behind his back. _That's what Jaime would do_, she thinks. It's what she will do.

She bites her lip as she yanks on her boots.

When she reaches the practice yards, she is surprised to see Jaime leaning casually against the fence, his eyes closed, as if there is not a thing in the world to trouble him. She supposes there isn't – it is not as if the loss of her company could mean very much to such a man. The sun glints off the metalwork lions on his belt and makes his hair look even more like gold than usual. Brienne almost loses her nerve. _How can I face him_? She wonders.

Then, it is too late to flee. He opens his eyes and catches sight of her. He straitens immediately and opens his mouth as if to call out to her. He seems to think better of it, though, for he closes it just as quickly and leans back against the fence. Brienne takes a deep breath and walks resolutely toward him, stopping when she is an arm's length from him. _I have earned the right to hear the truth from you_, she thinks. _I have earned the right to have you look me in the eye when you tell me to keep away from you. _

"Brienne," he says neutrally.

"Jaime," she responds, her voice much calmer than her mind.

"You are well?" He asks. If he were anyone else, she would say that he sounded uncertain.

"You are early," she says. _Stupid_, she thinks. _Why did I say that? I am no fool; I am making it sound like I think he was here waiting for me. _

Jaime grins broadly at her. "A pain in my ribs kept me from sleeping. Do try for the other side today, won't you? I hate to feel any more lopsided than usual."

"I do not think I could land such a blow a second time," she says truthfully.

Jaime throws back his head and laughs. He seems suddenly to be in an uncommonly good mood and Brienne, torn between alarm and relief, almost does not mind that he is most likely mocking her.

"Sometimes I forget that you may be one of the only sincerely humble people living in King's Landing. I would say it was refreshing if it wasn't so aggravating."

"Knights are supposed to be humble," she says, uncertain what is happening.

His grin widens and he grabs up his helm and the practice blade that he had propped against the post. "Well, then. You'd best come and try to humble me," he says, walking away from the fence.

She follows. They fight as usual and there is nothing beyond wooden blades clattering into each other and their feet churning up the ground. Brienne is never confused when they fight. She understands why Jaime swings as he does. She knows the blocks he uses. And, if she pays close attention to his face and body, she can often tell what he will do next. He wins the first bout and she the second. Partway through the third bout, Brienne begins to feel lack of sleep catching up with her. Though she lands a hard blow to his thigh and a powerful jab to his right shoulder, he is finally able to slide his sword up under her guard and she yields. They are both breathing hard and Brienne sees for the first time that they have drawn a small crowd.

Most of the onlookers scatter once they realize the fighting is over and Jaime pulls his helm off to reveal hair dark from the exertion. Brienne removes her helm as well and, glancing in the direction of the fence where several squires are still watching them, self-consciously licks the sweat off her upper lip and shakes her hair into her face.

When she looks back at Jaime, she sees that he is staring at her oddly.

"What?" she asks sullenly.

She expects him to make some crack about being captivated by the ugliness of her features, but instead he looks down quickly and shrugs.

Brienne does not know what to make of this, so she ignores it and begins to stretch the aches from her muscles. A young squire wanders over to Jaime from where he had been standing watching the fighting, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. An admirer, Brienne thinks.

"Ser…Lord Jaime?" the boy asks nervously. _Strange,_ Brienne thinks. She often forgets that Jaime should now rightly be called "Lord."

Jaime stops stretching and turns to look at the boy. "Yes?" he asks.

"My...my lord, my lord would like to speak with you. Later, if it please my lord. Not now. My lord is still breaking his fast, my lord." Brienne hides her smile – the poor boy can't be more than twelve. To her surprise, Jaime doesn't mock the lad's awkwardness.

"Your lord will be Roland Crakehall," he says, glancing at crest on the boy's tunic.

"Yes, Lord Jaime," says the boy, who looks delighted that he is being taken seriously.

"He wants to share more of his thoughts about the trustworthiness of Lord Estren?" Jaime asks, sounding harassed.

"He said I am to tell you that he wishes to discuss his concerns about the future of the Westerlands," the boy says, drawing himself up importantly.

Jaime's mouth curves and he glances at Brienne and raises an eyebrow. She smiles back at him despite of herself.

"Of course he does," Jaime says. "Very well. Tell him I am to meet with Lord Estren at midday to discuss the future of the Westerlands, but that he is welcome to come to me later."

"Yes, my lord," the boy says. "I'll tell him exactly that my lord."

"Good," Jaime says. When the squire still does not leave he sighs. "Is there something else?"

"My lord…" the boy says hesitantly before seeming to screw up the courage to ask "is it true that you were also a squire at Crakehall?"

"Yes, for Lord Roland's father," the squire's eyes grow even wider as he loses what dignity he had been able to muster to a fresh surge of enthusiasm.

"For true? Is Crakehall where you learned to fight like that? How long did it take? Lord Roland says that he's known armies that would follow you into the seventh hell if you asked. How do you get them to do that, my lord? How did you learn-"

"What's your name?" Jaime interrupts.

"Kevan, my lord. Of House Lydden."

"Kevan, anything I have learned I have learned through constant practice and respect for my elders," Jaime says sardonically, though it is clear to Brienne from the rapt expression on young Kevan's face that he had missed the cynicism. She cannot help but laugh. Both squire and man turn to look at her and she blushes.

"Are you really the Maid of Tarth?" Kevan blurts out.

"Yes," Brienne says. She cannot understand why the boy is looking at her with the same wide-eyed expression. She shakes her hair forward nervously.

"I heard that you beat the Knight of the Flowers in the first tourney you ever fought in. And that you slew half of the members of the Brotherhood Without Banners. And that-"

"Yes, yes," says Jaime. "It's all true - she's very valiant; destined to be immortalized in song. Unlike my message to Lord Crakehall, which seems destined to go unheard."

The boy ducks his head, chastened. "Yes, Lord Jaime. I'll go right now. And I'll practice all the time, like you said, my lord!" Then he dashes off in the direction of the Red Keep.

Brienne glowers at Jaime. "Don't mock me, my lord," she says.

Jaime laughs. "I was not mocking you. If you are going to continue to insist on being heroic, you are going to have to learn the difference between ridicule and admiration. Otherwise they will be singing of the great deeds and fine principles of Brienne the Brusque."

_That would be better than Brienne the Beauty, _she thinks. "I have made many mistakes. I do not think it would be right for anyone to sing of me."

Jaime snorts. "As you are fond of reminding me, I have made a number of poor choices. It does not stop most people from recounting my victories. What is true has very little to do with what people say and what is right has even less. Trust me; boys pay no mind to trivial things like failure and hypocrisy. The Sword of Morning could have flung half the children in the Red Keep from the battlements and I still would have followed him around like a puppy."

She tries to imagine Jaime at Kevan Lydden's age – all elbows and knees and admiration for his heroes. She cannot quite picture it. "Almost everyone I admired as a girl is dead," she says. "Or changed."

"Perhaps that is why my brother likes books so much. It must be much more convenient to have idols that never lived in the first place. Maybe that's why he is always urging me to read." Jaime's grin is fond.

"They say your brother is a clever man," Brienne says. Though she has rarely spoken to him, she mislikes Tyrion Lannister, the kinslayer. Every time Jaime mentions his younger brother, Brienne is struck by a strange urge to grab his shoulders and shake him and yell that the dwarf is not to be trusted.

"He is," Jaime says in a quelling tone. "I've promised him I'd speak to you."

"You spoke of me with the Imp?" Brienne asks hostilely.

"_Tyrion_, wench," Jaime says, sounding angry. "My brother's name is Tyrion. Not Imp. Not Kinslayer. Not Dwarf. Do you understand? Tyrion."

Brienne returns his stare and does not flinch at the harshness of his words. "What did _Tyrion_ wish you to say to me?" she asks, eyes narrowing.

Jaime sighs, seeming to take her use of his brother's name as a tacit apology, though Brienne did not mean it as such. "I have been at court too long. I've grown too used to scandals and schemes and to being at the center of lickspittles grasping for power to truly mind. You will have to get used to such things as well."

_Does he mean that he does not mind that his name is coupled with mine?_ she wonders. "What is it to your brother if I become accustomed to lies and power mongering?"

"He is concerned that the rivals of House Lannister may try to provoke some mischief or other at your expense."

"That doesn't make any sense," Brienne says, unsure whether or not she should be angry. "I'm of no importance here. I'm-"

"In the habit of underestimating your position to the point of destruction," Jaime finishes for her. "You fought well in the wars. You are known and respected by members of several of the most powerful families in the seven kingdoms and you are an heir in your own right. It is naïve to think that you can avoid politics no matter how much you may wish to."

"I know nothing of politics. I have no reliable talent for tact," she says. She does not know why she is even bothering to respond to such ridiculous assertions.

"If I had any reliable talent for it, I would never have hauled you out to the battlements or mentioned any of these rumors to you in the first place," he says ruefully.

"Why did you tell me?" She asks.

He does not pretend not to know what she's talking about. "I thought you deserved to hear it from me. I supposed I owed you an apology. You know how my family feels about debt." Brienne blinks at him. He looks away, back towards the stables where squires are beginning to mount their horses. "It upsets you."

Brienne thinks about denying it, but she knows that it is too late to hide the truth from him. "Yes," she says, trying hard to keep her face still. She turns and keeps walking back in the direction of the Red Keep.

She is surprised when he reaches out with his left hand and grabs her wrist to stop her. She instinctively whirls back to face him and jerks her arm from his grasp. _A warrior's response, _she thinks, _not a lady's_.

"Brienne," he asks, his voice serious, "why did you come this morning?"

She looks down at her boots and takes a deep breath before returning his gaze. "I am a large, ugly woman who fights like a man," she says, relieved to hear how firm her voice sounds. She notices that his arm twitches toward her again, as if to reach out for her, though he does not. She is both pleased and disappointed that he doesn't dare. "If the world must hate me for it then so be it," she continues. "I cannot be otherwise. I will not hide and I will learn not to care what others say of me." She cannot admit to him that she came to see if he would still speak to her. She wishes she did not have to admit it to herself.

"It is a hard lesson to learn, my lady," he says, his expression unreadable.

_I don't care so long as I don't have to be alone_, she thinks. "I have learned many hard lessons," she says.

"Yes," he agrees. "That I believe."


End file.
